


I'm coming home (tell someone to meet me)

by staidwaters



Series: Replay [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward teenage flirting between, Erik the kid, Except sometimes he's N'Jadaka instead, Gen, How can a family of such awesome people end up so messed up?, I don't care what the credits say his name is Erik Stevens OR Killmonger NOT Erik Killmonger, Manipulative Erik to the rescue, N’Jobu gets to take Erik home to Wakanda-both Eriks, Occasionally unreliable narrators, Okoye & W’Kabi, Teesny tiny T’Challa, Time Travel, and everyone else is just guessing, because Manipulative Erik is manipulative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staidwaters/pseuds/staidwaters
Summary: In the chaos following yet another alien invasion, the Time Gem ends up in Wakanda for a bit.  Erik takes advantage.(Side story to Save Point, but you shouldn’t need to read that first - just assume Erik survived somehow.)





	1. A future that ain’t going to happen no more

**Author's Note:**

> This is set WAAAYYYY after Save Point, (at least in movie-Erik’s personal timeline) but is part of the same universe.  
>   
>  _That said, this story has a lot of unreliable narration - don’t trust what the characters say, especially about the past, OK?_  
>   
>  (I started this well before IW came out, but I think cannon will go in directions that will result in this staying sort of canon compliant. As much as a time travel AU can be.)

A basketball hit the milk crate acting as a basket and bounced off, to the groans of the kid who shot it.  The teams reformed and the game continued like always, just another day on the streets.  But in an apartment high above them, tensions flared as lies and betrayals came to light, and the fate of a nation hung in the balance.

“Did you think you were the only spy that we sent to the States?”

“James?  James, you lied to me?”

“You will return to Wakanda at once, and inform the council of your crimes.”

N’Jobu flinched, eyes wide and panicked.

T’Chaka turned away.

With a harsh sob, his brother drew a gun from his waistband.  

T’Chaka spun back around, claws spread wide, and …

 The lights went out.

“Yeah, no.”  A mottled shadow dropped between them.  Batted the claws aside, then casually reached out to pluck the gun from N’Jobu’s shaking hands and tossed it away.  “This ain’t how it’s gonna go.”

T’Chaka punched out with his other hand, aiming for the attacker’s throat.  His claws screeched as they slid across the jugular without making a dent. The shadow grabbed his hand and twisted it, kicking T’Chaka across the knees and forcing him to the floor.

A gun went off.  Sparks flew off the shadow’s back.

“Seriously?” The shadow turned around to stare at Zuri, who held the gun in trembling hands, and stood up to move towards him.  Zuri shot again, to no effect. “I’m wearing vibraniu…” A louder boom, and he stumbled forward from the impact. He spun around to see N’Jobu loading another pair of shells into a cut off shotgun. “Get away from my king,” N’Jobu said in a low voice.

“Oh come on.” The shadow sighed, then blurred forward to yank the shotgun away.  Zuri dove for the false wall that hid the rest of the guns.

The shadow switched direction and tackled Zuri to the ground.  “You’re gonna get the entire precinct up our ass…” Another blast from the shotgun hit his shoulder. He craned his neck back.  “Father, stop!”

N'Jobu paused.

The lights came up, and the three got a good look at what was unmistakably the mantle of the black panther before the man wearing it tapped the golden band of claws across his chest, and the mask dissolved into nothingness.  The young man inside smiled cockily.

“Hey Dad. Long time no see.”

T’Chaka rolled to his feet and stood, tall and commanding.  “Who are you?”

“Yeah, hi to you too, uncle.”

“Erik?”  N’Jobu whispered.  “My son?”

“Your son is still playing out front. I’m from a future that ain’t going to happen no more, since you didn’t die just now, so he ain’t gonna come home for dinner tonight to find your bloody corpse with panther claws in his chest.”

“I wouldn’t have killed my brother!”  T’Chaka protested.

“Yeah, you would have.  Although watching this just now, I’ll believe that you didn’t intend it.  But you haven’t been King that long, have you. Not used to the strength and speed.  Been breaking a lot of shit lately? I know I did, when I took the throne.”

“You,” T’Chaka protested, but it was impossible to ignore the evidence of the mantle of the Black Panther. “But my children…”

“See, in my timeline?  You killed my Dad. And that kid out there, he saw enough to know it was you.  So I trained. And I killed. You got taken out with a bomb at the UN headquarters. T’Challa went down in a formal challenge for the throne.  Thrust that spear right up through your son’s ribs and then threw him over the falls as he lay dying.  Auntie was pretty bummed there was no body for a funeral. Shuri tried to fight back, but once I had the mantle of  the Black Panther? She didn’t stand a chance. In the end, Aunt Ramona ran off to hide with the Jabari. Which left the throne to me. And I started a war with the rest of the world that would burn Wakanda to the ground.”  Erik licked his lips and grinned, no trace of humor in his dead eyes.

N’Jobu looked horrified.  “N’Jadaka…I wouldn’t have wanted...”

“I know. You love Wakanda and all that shit.  But you were dead, and I didn’t care.”

“What happened to you, my son,” N’Jobu breathed.

“You've been here long enough to guess.”

N’Jobu glared at his brother.  “You did not take him back to Wakanda with you?!”

T’Chaka spread his hands in helpless bemusement.

“That’s what you’re upset about? Not, oh, the part where he killed you?” Erik snorted and rolled to his feet, pulling Zuri up with him.  He pushed Zuri roughly towards T’Chaka. “Here, take him.”

Zuri hesitated.  “Erik, my boy? Are you really…”

Erik stared at him coldly.  “Don’t worry, I killed you too, Uncle James.  And you know? You’re the one I still don’t really regret.”

 


	2. that which cannot be replaced at any price

The distant wail of a police siren broke the stunned silence that had  fallen after Erik’s spiteful declaration. 

“Cops’ll be here soon.  You three need to get gone.”  Erik moved swiftly to panel that hid the secret storage and started pulling out papers.  “You won’t be coming back.  Pack it up and get out on the Talon.  It’s on the roof, right?.”

“My...N’Jadaka.” N’Jobu hesitated awkwardly, hand resting on the map on the table, unable to call this man, so obviously older than him, son. “I believe you..  And I am grateful for your interference.  And sorry that you obviously paid a dear price for my choices.  But I cannot simply leave.  I have obligations here. There are people who depend on me.  I can _not_ abandon them.  Not if there are any other options.”

Erik came over and looked at the map.  “This going down Sat.?”

N’Jobu blinked. “Yes, how...”

“I’ll take care of it.”

N’Jobu opened his mouth to protest.

“I remember it.  I know how it’ll go down without you there.  I’ll fix it.”  He fixed his father with a cold stare. “You said you believe me.  Can you trust me?  Do you trust me?”

“I…”

“Then get packing and get lost.”

T’Chaka had been watching all this silently.  Erik turned to him.  “So here’s how this is going to work.  That kid?  He ain’t going to lose his dad.  Anything happen to him, anything happen to EITHER of them? I’ll come for you.”

“I am not a dictator.  He committed a crime, and must answer for it.  I cannot control what the council decides.”  
“Then let’m know that if they fuck up I’ll be coming for them.  Look, you hid Dad’s death last time, and looked fucking incompetent and potentially corrupt because it seemed like you were covering up the theft.  By the time T’Challa took the throne, half the tribes were a hairstring from open revolt against the throne.  Anything, and I mean ANYTHING is going to be an improvement over that.”

T’Chaka winced.

The sirens suddenly got louder and flashing lights reflected off the walls.

“The police are here,” Zuri commented unnecessarily.

“I’ll slow ‘em down.  You got 15 min. I’ll send the kid up.”  He grabbed a long coat draped over a low cabinet in the back.  “Mind if I borrow this, Father?”

N’Jobu shook his head mutely. Erik shrugged it on. “You got any alcohol here?  Beer, wine…?”

“I do not...You know I do not indulge in such things!”

“Forgot about that,” Erik admitted.  “Nothing?”

“Rubbing alcohol under the sink, but..”

Erik spun around and dug it out, dumping a fair portion over his chest.

“What are you…”

“I’ll act drunk and let’em take me in, escape later tonight. I’ve got the strength of the panther, remember? They’ll never be able to hold me.  Or hurt me.  Just get going.  My little act ain’t gonna slow’em long.”

Erik hopped over the couch and exited the room, black coat billowing behind him.

A few moments later, pounding feet ran up the stairs.  “Father?”  There was a soft knock on the door, then it slowly pushed open and a young boy poked his head in.  “A drunken man said you were looking for me?  And I saw, on the roof…” he suddenly spotted T’Chaka in the panther habit, and gaped.

“N’Jadaka,” N’Jobu started, making the boy’s widen even further at the sudden use of his secret name. “This is my brother, King T’Chaka of Wakanda. He has come to take us home.  Go pack, quickly.  Only that which cannot be replaced at any price.  Photos.  The blanket your mother made you.  Your diary. There is little time.”

Young Erik nodded sharply, obediently, and rushed to obey.  N’Jobu started cramming papers into a duffel bag.

“I can not see it,” Zuri murmured.  “I can not see anything of our kind and noble boy in that man.”

“I can,” T’Chaka said softly.  “They have the same terrible determination in their eyes;  the ability to accept whatever fate throws at them without surprise or hesitation.”

His brother frowned at him. “If I am to leave with you, then stop chattering and help me pack. James, or whatever your name is, get the address book from the kitchen, and the pamphlets from the closet.  Give them to Henry, in 403?  He will know what to do with them.”

“The guns?” T’Chaka asked.

“They are all legal, and cannot be traced to anyone but me.  Leave them.”

“Father, I have everything.”  The boy came out of the bedroom and stood before them.  N’Jobu laid a hand on his shoulder.

Gunfire suddenly exploded below, and N’Jobu flinched and turned towards the window.

“He will be fine,” T’Chaka promised.  “He is wearing the panther habit, remember?”

“Father?”

N’Jobu swallowed.  “Take my son, and this bag, my brother?  I will join you in a minute.  I swear. On my wife’s grave, I will join you, I swear. Just give me a moment.  N’Jadaka, go with him, will you?  And behave.”

The boy nodded solemnly.

 

N’Jobu sidled into the solemn crowd lining the parking lot.  “What has happened?” he asked of one of the boys his son had been playing with earlier.

“Some crazy drunk mouthing off at the pigs.  We tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t.  They took him.”

“He was okay? They took him in alive?”

The boy looked up at him strangely.  “He one of yours? I didn’t think your guys were allowed to drink.”

“He is not with us. But he is my responsibility,” N’Jobu explained shortly.

The boy shrugged.  “He was alive.  Looked like he didn’t get hit, he just fell over in surprise when they started shooting.  I think he got knocked around a bit when they were dragging him into the car, but he was too drunk to feel it. Looked like he was trying not to laugh at them, which really pissed ‘em off.  They ain’t gonna let him walk, even if they can’t pin anything on him but public drunkeness.”

N’Jobu nodded, feeling an odd sense of abandonment amid the rush of relief. He truly was done here, then.  “Thank you, child.” He turned and slipped back inside.  



	3. I did not intend that

The atmosphere of the Talon was less awkward than N’Jobu had expected. The Doras narrowed their eyes disapprovingly and shifted their hands near their weapons in clear warning when he stepped onboard - he wondered vaguely if they had been listening during the fight but been too far away to come to T’Chaka’s aid in time, or if T’Chaka had told them what had happened … in which case, how much had his son heard? How much did he understand?  


N’Jadaka didn’t seem upset though. He was obviously nervous and excited, but hiding it under a stoic face and perfect politeness, his eyes peering into every corner and taking quick, bashful glances at the others whenever he thought they weren’t looking. T’Chaka, meanwhile, was too busy staring awkwardly at N’Jadaka in bemusement to give N’Jobu more than a swift exasperated glance as the ramp shut and the ship took off.  


James was shifting nervously in the corner. N’Jobu felt a brief flare of satisfaction. James had presumably assumed that either he would return as a hero, with N’Jobu in chains, or N’Jobu would disappear, dead or fled, and James would never again have to face the man he betrayed. So bitter and angry, in those last moments, James had been…no, Zuri had been. James, N’Jobu reminded himself, had been the lie. The shy and bumbling innocent who had so quickly become his closest confidante. Zuri, burning with proud hate, was the reality. And N’Jobu had fallen for the lie so easily. James had been the first to treat him with the kind of awe and respect he had known in Wakanda, had he not? N’Jobu had been so careful to never reveal himself, never seem more than an average, ordinary American...so while others had respected him, in their own way, they had never shown the awe and devotion James had given him. It had been…nice. Too nice. With the kind of anger Zuri had revealed, it must have torn the man’s soul to shreds, fawning over him like that. Embarrassed as he was for falling for such a obvious ploy, N’Jobu still felt a vicious flare of satisfaction at the thought of his betrayer’s discomfort. A feeling his adult son had obviously shared.  


N’Jobu shrugged the thought aside and moved over to stand near the son he knew, who was watching one of the Doras pilot the ship with graceful waves of her arms.  


“I apologize for the speed of our departure, my son,” N’Jobu said softly. “You are well?”  


“Yes father,” N’Jadaka replied promptly. “We are going to your home?”  


“We are.” N’Jobu nodded.  


“Eventually,” T’Chaka cut in.  


N’Jobu turned to him and raised an eyebrow.  


“I cannot LEAVE that man here,” T’Chaka grumbled. “You were bad enough; who knows what kind of trouble he might bring, alone and active in the outer world. Much as his existence makes my mind twist into knots, I cannot ignore him. However much I would wish to.”  


“Do you really wish that, my brother?”  


“It had been a decade since I felt this … young.” T’Chaka shook his head. “I am the Black Panther, and yet I fell before him. I am King, and yet I obeyed him. Without question. It is … uncomfortable.”  


“Life generally is,” N’Jobu said unsympathetically, crossing his arms. “What will you do with him?”  


“Nothing he does not allow, I am sure,” T’Chaka said dryly. “Worry about yourself, would you? I am only intending to offer him a ride, back to Wakanda. I am not sure I could bring him by force, even with this ship and all my warriors at my side. I will not risk it.”  


“He has promised to help an associate of mine with something tomorrow. He will not come.”  


“I can wait a few days,” T’Chaka waved it off. “Or offer our help, if it comes to that. I would rather corrupt myself with your plots than risk him revealing the technology he carries.”  


N’Jobu raised an eyebrow, unexpectedly pleased despite the implied insult. T’Chaka was not one to lose gracefully. Once involved, he was likely to stay involved until he felt like he had won, which was pretty much the best case scenario imaginable.  


“It will be another three or four hours before I finish rewiring the sensors to detect the small amount of vibranium in the suit,” one of the Doras added, from where she knelt next to a hatch in the back wall. “The clouds will clear long before then, and the glow of our engines will be visible in the night sky. We should find a place to set down, and go hunting in the fog of the early morning.”  


“May I suggest the fortified island near the entrance to the bay,” N’Jobu suggested, mouth quirking at the irony. “It empties of people in the afternoon, and will remain that way till late in the morning.”  


“Alcatraz?” N’Jadaka asked, with a frown. “Isn’t there anyplace…nicer?” He glanced over at the others, and then back at his father. “They are guests of a sort…”  


“Security over pleasantness,” the pilot chimed in. “But thank you for caring, child.”  


N’Jadaka frowned at her. “It is an abandoned prison,” he told her flatly.  


“How apt,” she murmured, obviously noting the same ridiculous irony N’Jobu had.  


“Good enough,” T’Chaka decided.  


A few minutes later the ship settled on the cracked and dandelion-dotted cement of the old parade grounds with a soft puff of dust. The ramp hissed open.  


“I will take first patrol,” the pilot said, standing. T’Chaka nodded, watching her exit.  


N’Jadaka looked at the open door, and then the fascinating technology around him, visibly torn. He bit his lip and decided. “May I go explore, father?” N’Jadaka asked. “It sounds like it may be a long time before we return to California…”  


N’Jobu looked questioningly at his brother, who in turn looked at the Dora standing nearest him.  


“Lindiwe.” T’Chaka jerked his chin towards the door. “Accompany him.”  


“You may go,” N’Jobu told his son. “But be careful, and do not go inside the buildings. They may be alarmed.”  


N’Jadaka nodded solemnly and trotted out the door, his new guard a silent shadow at his back.  


“A very polite child,” T’Chaka said dryly. “I do not recall you ever being so obedient.”  


“Nor you.” N’Jobu shrugged. “It is a type of armor, here. It shields him.”  


“Speaking of shields…”  


N’Jobu nodded, and moved to sit down next to his brother. “I did not wish for anyone in Wakanda to be hurt,” he admitted. “I did not know anyone had been. There should have been a fire near the rhino sanctuary at the border. The animals would have panicked, and everyone should have been called in to help evacuate them. I did not think there would be anyone left to guard the Border Tribe’s stockpile.”  


“You admit it then.”  


“You already knew. This will be difficult enough to navigate without me adding lies to the mix.” He looked at his brother. “I do not wish to cause you trouble. More trouble.”  


“Eighteen dead, brother. And I promised to bring their kin the head of the traitor. Before I realized the only one it could have been, was you.”  


N’Jobu closed his eyes. “I did not intend that,” he whispered.  


***************  


Outside, N’Jadaka was strolling along the flagstone paved walk along the side of the island, hands in his pockets as he stared north across the bay at the lights of Berkley, glinting dimly in the post-sunset haze of twilight. His empty Oakland apartment was only a few miles outside Berkley, but all of Oakland was hidden from view behind the dark bulk of Treasure Island. However hard he strained, he would not be able to spot it. But that did not stop him from trying.  


It felt so odd, to know that he would not sleep in his own bed tonight. That he would likely never sleep in it again. Never turn in the math homework he had done last night. Never return the library books he’d borrowed last week. Never again taste the lemonade and sugar cookies of the diner on the corner. But at the same time – it was so wonderful! His father was a real prince, just like he’d always said! It wasn’t that he’d doubted father, exactly. He just…hadn’t believed, either. And now he was a prince, and had met a king, and had his own bodyguard. And the ship! It looked like something out of a movie. A sci-fi movie. So fast, and smooth, and quiet! He wondered what you had to do to get a license to fly it.  


“Peace and….Freedom. Home of the free Indian…” The bodyguard, Lindiwe, had her head tilted back as she read the graffiti on the water tower as they walked by. “Odd poetry for a prison.”  


N’Jadaka shook his head with a smile, proud that he knew enough to explain it. “It was written after the prison was closed. The land was supposed to be returned to the native tribes if it was no longer in use, but it wasn’t. So when the government decided to declare treaties they’d signed with the tribes void and sell off their land about twenty years ago, the tribes came and occupied the island in protest.”  


Lindiwe looked thoughtful. “Is that what has been happening to your mother’s people as well, that has Prince N’Jobu so upset?”  


N’Jadaka shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. His mother’s people? “We don’t have land, or treaties to break. But we were promised equality under the law a hundred and twenty years ago. Only, most of the time the legal system is the most unequal of all. And barely anyone notices, or cares. Father wants to change that.”  


Lindiwe hummed thoughtfully.  


**********************  


“How could you think that selling our nation’s secrets to a criminal would work to anyone’s benefit?” T’Chaka demanded.  


N’Jobu waved it off. “Klaue is clinically insane. Brain damage from a failed experimental treatment for an injury, as I understand. He is a genius, but the drugs have left him with only the most tenuous grasp of reality. Most find him too obnoxious to be worth interacting with, and no one ever believes anything he says. Half of it is always total nonsense. Besides, all I told him was that a vibranium meteor had fallen to Wakanda a decade ago, and we had melted it down and stored it by the border to use as trade. He has no idea there could be more, under the ground.”  


“You were foolish to trust him with even that much. He got into the mines, brother. He has seen it all.”  


N’Jobu winced. “Where is he now?”  


“I had hoped you knew. There are many teams hunting him, but he has gone to ground. We have seen no signs of him.”  


“I will help however I can.”  


T’Chaka sighed. “That is something, I suppose. At least you regret it.”  


N’Jobu hesitated.  


T’Chaka narrowed his eyes at him “You do regret it,” he said, voice more a threat than question.  


“I…” N’Jobu trailed off. “I did not want to harm Wakanda. But the world cannot continue like this. If it forces Wakanda to care about what happens outside our borders…”  


“You do not have the right to decide that unilaterally!”  


“I could have done so much good with even a handful of vibranium, brother. All I needed was some way to catch the world’s attention, to draw attention to all the false logic and loopholes in the laws that harm those the law is supposed to protect. If we can we fix the laws here, get them enforced, it will spread to the rest of the world, I am sure. America so enjoys being seen as the moral leadership of the world…It would have worked! Improved so many lives…”  


“Started a worldwide arms race!”  


“It was worth the risk!” N’Jobu leaned back and sighed. “It is the mission I was assigned, but there is no possible way to achieve it with the resources at hand, brother. None. And success here is imperative. There is no other moral choice.”  


”If it was impossible, you should have admitted defeat and come home.”  


N’Jobu shook his head. “I could not,” He refuted softly. “I regret the deaths and harm I caused. I regret the difficult position I have placed you in. But I can not regret trying, however much I failed the execution. I can not regret believing that this could be a better world. That it should be a better world.” He sighed again; looked down at his hands. “I am willing to face the consequences of my actions, brother. I have always been willing to pay the price I knew would come eventually. Just let me have an open trial, so I can speak my piece. Even if it means my death.”  


“Big words that mean nothing, given your son’s threats.”  


”Him, I did not plan for.”  


T’Chaka grunted.  


******************  


Fifteen miles away, Erik whooped as he flung himself recklessly out an open fourth story window, knocking a laboring fan to the side. Angry yells erupted behind him. As he landed, he yanked his arms apart, shattering the handcuffs, and took off down the street at a comfortable jog that was still faster than most cars.


	4. ‘Cousin Leon’

The dim gloom of early morning found the brothers and two of the Doras wading through a dew-damp thicket of blackberry vines and thistles on the forested bluff overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.  


“You are sure he is ahead?” N’Jobu asked dubiously, peering through the mist.  


“I am sure there is vibranium ahead, yes,” Lindiwe replied dryly, after a quick glance at her king for permission.  


A moment later, they found themselves at the base of an old, moss-covered wooden windmill, the tattered remains of its arms hanging limp and still above their heads. Condensation from the fog dripped slimy trails down its walls.  


The man they sought sat just inside, watching them enter the small room with sharp, hooded eyes as he leaned back lazily against a post, hand draped loosely over a bottle by his side.  


“What are you DOING?!” N’Jobu growled, marching over and yanking the bottle out of his erstwhile son’s hand. Gin, and there was only about a half inch of liquid left at the bottom.  


N’Jadaka let it go, laughing softly. “If I’d known you was coming, I’d have hidden it,” he said. “How’d you find me?”  


This close, N’Jobu could smell the alcohol on his son’s breath. “Why would you poison yourself like this?”  


N’Jadaka shook his head, smiling fondly. “Bast’s gift. I couldn’t get drunk if I tried.”  


“Did you try?!” N’Jobu demanded.  


“It was a nice night,” N’Jadaka evaded, which was an answer in and of itself.  


His father frowned at him. “Get up. We are leaving.”  


N’Jadaka raised an eyebrow. “We?”  


“Apparently you cannot be trusted to take care of yourself!” N’Jobu said scornfully, looking around at the dilapidated wood and muddy puddles surrounding them.  


T’Chaka grunted quietly from where he stood just outside, looking amused. “There is room for another in the ship, if you would like to join us. I’m sure it would be easier than finding another path to Wakanda.”  


N’Jadaka hesitated. “Hadn’t been planning to return,” he admitted.  


“You are a king of Wakanda, even if you do not rule now. Your place is with us,” T’Chaka insisted.  


“Where else would you go?” N’Jobu asked, spreading his hands, as if any other idea was ridiculous.  


“I had plans,” N’Jadaka said defensively.  


“Like you had plans for last night?!”  


“I got a shitton done last night! And I ain’t here because I didn’t have any place to go. Used to hang out around here a lot as a kid; foster parents were down in Oceanside. I wanted to see the place again.”  


N’Jobu looked dubious. “Here?”  


N’Jadaka rolled his eyes. “It’ll get restored eventually.” He glanced around. “Sort of,” he admitted.  


“Up,” N’Jobu insisted, grabbing his son’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Have you decided what to do about tomorrow?”  


N’Jadaka cracked his neck and shrugged. “It’s all taken care of. Don’t worry about it.”  


N’Jobu sputtered. “What do you mean it’s all taken care of?”  


“One of the nice things about being from the future is that I know everyone’s dirty secrets. There won’t be any problems tomorrow, and a lot of them are going to look pretty disgusting to their constituents once today’s paper prints. They’ll be too busy scrambling for power and trying to stay out of jail to get in the way. I passed on some tips about investments too – ought to be enough to guarantee a pretty hefty war chest for overturning McClesky v. Kemp.”  


“It was overturned eventually, then?” N’Jobu asked, closing his eyes in relief.  


“Took Wakanda refusing to do business with any nation that didn’t write shit like that out of the books. We can probably manage it earlier this time around.”  


“You opened Wakanda to the world?” T’Chaka asked.  


Erik shook his head negatively.  


“I would not have done it,” T’Chaka insisted.  


“It was T’Challa. There was this whole alien invasion thing and Wakanda started supplying arms to the rest of the world… Wakandan politics got kinda crazy for a while there.”  


“Alien invas….never mind. You killed my son after he fulfilled your father’s mission?”  


Erik looked at T’Chaka flatly. “Killed him cuz I wanted revenge. Nothing else.”  


“And now?”  


“Father ain’t dead now, is he? Got no reason to want revenge. If I wanted you dead, you would be. Leave it alone.”  


“Thank you for helping them,” N’Jobu broke in. “It … My heart is lightened, knowing the work will continue in my absence.”  


“Woulda continued after you left regardless. But I can’t come with you. These are my people. I ain’t here on a mission, I’m here to protect my own family and kin. America is my home. Not Wakanda.”  


T’Chaka stared in disbelief. “You were KING!”  


“Because you got stupid laws. Killing the prior king is not actually good proof that someone will be good for a country. Fix that, would you?”  


“It is tradition…”  


“It’s stupid.”  


“If Wakanda is not your home,” N’Jobu cut in, “will you at least accompany us there for a visit? For a few weeks, at least? I would like to get to know you, N’Jadaka.”  


Erik looked at him for a bit, then smiled wryly. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Sorry to drag you guys up here this early. I assume you want to get out before the fog clears?”  


“It would be preferable,” Lindiwe said dryly.  


Erik scooped up the canvas knapsack by his feet.  


“Do we need to stop elsewhere to pick us your things?” N’Jobu asked, eyeing the small bag dubiously.  


“Have a cache in one of the old Cold War bunkers on the headlands,” Erik admitted, “but I’d rather just leave it here till I return. None of my gear’s really appropriate for Wakanda. Rather just get things there, if you’ll cover it for me.”  


“Of course,” N’Jobu nodded, pleased at the opportunity.  


“Wakanda will buy you whatever you need,” T’Chaka said with a frown. “You are a king. It is your due.”  


“You really need to stop harping on the king thing. I don’t want the throne. It’s yours.”  


“I would not let you take it.”  


Erik just raised an eyebrow at him. “Then we’re on the same page, and there’s no problem.” He gestured towards the trail out. “Ladies first,” he said, with a nod at the door that could have been aimed at either Lindiwe or T’Chaka. He smirked slightly as neither budged. “How’s mini-me taking the change,” Erik asked his father as they started walking, brushing past the two at the door.  


“He is excited; eager to see our homeland. I’m sure the reality of the loss will set in at some point. But for now it is a grand adventure.”  


“You gonna drop him in one of the schools or get him a tutor?”  


“You think he could keep up with a school?”  


Erik shrugged. “It’ll take a few months for him to used to thinking in Xhosa and functioning in a different culture, but it’s hardly impossible.”  


“My daughter could handle having another student, I think,” Lindiwe cut in. “T’Challa is no great trial, these days.”  


Erik froze, and spun around to face her, a giant, ridiculous smile spreading across his face. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “You’re Okoye’s mother?!!”  


Her hand tightened on her spear enough that a sliver of blue lightning crackled up the shaft and lit up the blade. “How do you know my daughter?”  


Erik tossed his head back and laughed. “General Okoye. Leader of the Dora Milaje; the greatest warrior in Wakanda. Yeah. I know her. She’s not exactly my biggest fan. But I like her. She’s one of the few people I can always trust to give me a good fight. I’ve got the power of the heart-shaped herb, but out of the suit, it’s still 50/50 which of us will go down in a spar.”  


“You made her serve you, after you killed T’Challa.” Fury and horror were leaking into Lindiwe’s voice. “He is like her own child!”  


The amusement wiped from Erik’s face, and he stared her down coldly. “The Dora Milaje serve the throne,” he said flatly.  


Lindiwe stared at him for a moment. “So we do,” she said, and turned away. Her agreement sounded like a threat.

********************  


The ride back to Wakanda was every bit as awkward as N’Jobu had feared yesterday’s flight would be. At least his son had slept through it. His younger son, that is. Lindiwe was ignoring Erik, but spent the entire time pointedly polishing a pile of weaponry that seemed to grow every time N’Jobu looked back at it. Erik watched her with a bittersweet yearning that flashed into sardonic amusement whenever someone glanced his way.  


What had this Okoye been to him? He obviously admired her. Missed her, even. She was as a mother to T’Challa; had Erik seen her as a mother figure as well? Even as she hated him? N’Jobu found that hard to stomach, but if Erik had truly killed her king, even in honorable challenge…  


Was it truly a good idea to bring Erik back to Wakanda with them? N’Jobu wanted to know him, but he might soon be facing his own trial and execution. Erik would try to stop it – of that N’Jobu had no doubt – and N’Jobu was beginning to become aware of how dangerous this adult variant of his son actually was. Not just physically, but…he hadn’t really thought about what his son had done. Revenge was one thing, but if he had ENJOYED it…. N’Jobu could not think of any other reason he would have kept a woman who hated him as the leader of the Dora Milaje. Put weapons in her hands and let her try to kill him, even as her oaths held her back. It …. did not paint a pretty picture of his son’s soul. Just how much damage would his son do to Wakanda, protecting N’Jobu?  


Perhaps N’Jobu could talk him out of it. Perhaps.  


The ship settled delicately on the landing pad, touching down as light as a butterfly landing on a flower before settling with a groan. Lindiwe stood and walked towards where N’Jobu and T’Chaka were sitting side by side. A few steps away, she let the objects in her hand dangle. A prisoner’s chains.  


“No,” T’Chaka objected. “There is no need for those, Lindiwe. Put them away.”  


“He is under arrest for a serious crime.”  


“My brother has come willingly!”  


N’Jobu stared thoughtfully at the deceptively delicate wisps of metal. They shimmered silver and gold in the bicolored light of the ship, as if winking at him.  


“I will wear them,” he said suddenly.  


“It is unnecessary,” T’Challa soothed.  


“You heard N’Jadaka. It seemed as if you were not treating the crime seriously, and as a result, the tribes turned on you, and your son. Let us not make the same mistakes.”  


“That was an entirely different situation. Brother. I do not wish to see you in chains.”  


“But your people do.”  


Erik rolled his eyes and stood up. “You all have fun deciding that. I’m gonna get some fresh air.” He pushed by the other two Doras and waved his hand at the door, which hissed open. An uncomfortable silence settled for a few seconds, and then from outside they heard a startled swear, and a large thump.  


By the time they made it out the door, Erik was lying on his back just off the side of the ramp, grinning widely. On his chest sat a small, pajama-clad figure wearing a necklace of twigs that was probably supposed to be the mantle of the Black Panther. N’Jobu froze in worry, hearing T’Chaka’s gasp of dismay behind him. Distantly, he heard the hum of the Dora Milaje powering up their weapons.  


“You aren’t father!” The figure accused, squishing Erik’s nose with a pointed finger.  


“I’m not?” Erik asked innocently, staring cross-eyed at the finger on his nose. “Are you sure?”  


“Of course I’m sure,” the boy protested indignantly.  


“Maybe I’m just wearing a mask.”  


“That’s your face! You have nose hairs!”  


“Maybe it’s a magic mask. Complete with nose hair.”  


“There is no such thing!” The boy sat back with a giggle. “You’re silly!”  


“Well, if I’m not your father, who is your father?”  


“King T’Chaka, of course!”  


“That’s a nice name. Maybe I could be a T’Chaka.”  


“No you can’t! You aren’t him!” The boy kicked him in the ribs.  


“Ow. Well, maybe I’m Prince T’Challa then.”  


“I’m Prince T’Challa!”  


“Well then, who am I?” He glanced over at the young girl who had just run in, breathing hard and glaring at the young boy, who shrunk back. “Can I be named Okoye?”  


“No! She’s Okoye! And that’s a girl’s name”  


“Oh, I know. I must be Sleepy-lion!”  


“That’s my cat! You’re not a cat!”  


“Well, I don’t know then. What do you think my name should be?”  


Young T’Challa stared at him critically, biting his thumbnail. “I guess you kind of remind me of my cat,” he admitted grudgingly. “But you don’t look sleepy. You can be Big-lion, if you want.”  


“Good enough. You can call me Cousin Leon for short.”  


Okoye coughed awkwardly from where you stood nearby. “My prince, apologize to the nice man and get off him.”  


“Oh!” T’Challa scrambled to his feet, managing to knee Erik – now Leon – in the kidneys and step on his hand in the process. Okoye winced. Erik laughed.  


“Sorry for knocking you down, Cousin Leon,” T’Challa said abashedly, hands clasped in front of him. “I wanted to pounce on father.”  


“Pounce? Like a panther?” Erik asked with a grin, raising himself up on his elbow. T’Challa nodded eagerly. “Well, you still have your chance,” Erik said with a smirk. He pointed behind T’Challa, to where T’Chaka, N’Jobu, and the Doras were still standing on the ramp.  


T’Challa spun around, and his eyes went wide. “Father!” He ran up the ramp and latched onto T’Chaka’s knees, much to his father’s obvious relief.  


Okoye followed him with her eyes, wincing again when she spotted her mother, her shoulders slumping in obvious mortification.  


“It’s not that bad,” Erik said gently. “Everyone’s got more important things to worry about right now. The prince get away from you a lot?” Erik rolled to his feet and stuck his hands in his pocket. He breathed deep of the familiar smell of vibranium and sun-warmed stone.  


“No, Mr…um…”  


“Call me Leon,” Erik suggested.  


Okoye gave him a weird look.  


“As you wish, Mr. Leon.” She shook her head. “He is normally much better behaved than this. I do not know what got into him tonight. I thought he was asleep.”  


Erik hummed noncommittally. He noticed Lindiwe glaring at him, and sighed. “You should go up and join them,” he suggested. “I bet they’d enjoy a welcome home.”  


Okoye visibly gritted her teeth and nodded silently, before following her charge.  


Up on the ramp, another small figure had silently appeared behind the adults. The younger Erik had apparently been awoken by all the commotion. He stared curiously at T’Challa, who eventually noticed him too.  


“Who’re you?” T’Challa asked.  


“Erik Ste…I mean, N’Jadaka.”  


“Eriksti doesn’t sound anything like N’Jadaka,” T’Challa said suspiciously.  


N’Jadaka smiled wryly. “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t. I’m N’Jadaka,” he said, firmly this time. “I just lived in a place where no one could say my name, so I got used to using a different one for a while.”  


“Your name isn’t hard to say!” T’Challa protested.  


“Not for you, maybe,” N’Jadaka shrugged.  


“Is that why you talk funny?”  


N’Jadaka stiffened.  


“Not bad-funny!” T’Challa hurried to point out. “It’s fun-funny.”  


“I suppose,” N’Jadaka relented.  


Off to one side, N’Jobu was watching his adult son watch the children’s meeting. The look on his face couldn’t be interpreted as anything but incredibly fond. Lindiwe shifted beside him. “Your son makes no sense,” she said, mildly.  


“I am aware,” N’Jobu replied, voice grim. Lindiwe shot him a sharp look.  


“Have your daughter take the children,” N’Jobu continued, his voice so soft as to be barely audible; he knew the keen senses given by the heart shaped herb, and had no wish to be overheard. “Then take him,” he nodded over at his adult son, “to find rooms and to get whatever clothing and supplies he needs.” Lindiwe clearly considered protesting - he had no power to give her orders - but thought better of it.  


T’Chaka had clearly heard as well, despite N’Jobu’s best efforts to be quiet. He detached T’Challa and pushed him gently in Okoye’s direction. “Go with your tutor, my son. You should show N’Jadaka around the palace. He has not been here before. He would enjoy the night gardens, I imagine.”  


T’Challa grinned and ran over to grabbed the older boy’s hand and pull him towards the door. “I can show you! I know where everything is!” he declared. N’Jadaka glanced over at his father hesitantly, but N’Jobu just nodded and shooed him away. He let T’Challa pull him out the landing pad’s door, Okoye jogging along behind with a sigh. By that point, Erik and Lindiwe had disappeared as well.  


“We are alone,” T’Chaka said unnecessarily. “What did you see, that required privacy to tell?”  


“Your son. He has a pet, named Sleepy-lion?”  


“A cat. As you heard.”  


“My son knew the name. T’Chaka, what kind of person would you talk about your childhood with, that you would trust enough to share that kind of detail? It is not something a stranger would ever learn. He did not just come to Wakanda and take the throne. He LIVED here. T’Challa TRUSTED him.” N’Jobu ran a hand across his brow. “You heard him. He dedicated his entire life to avenging my murder, which he witnessed when he was EIGHT. A murder which was prompted by the betrayal of my closest friend, whom he had trusted completely,” N’Jobu’s eyes slid over to Zuri, who flinched ever so slightly before turning it into a glare. “He RECREATED the betrayal. You saw him just now. There is no hatred in him for the boy. That was not a young man tolerating a strange child. He knows T’Challa. He ADORES T’Challa. Was gentle with him. Gentle with young Okoye as well, and he said she hates him, even as he spoke of her with fondness. He treats them as if they are made of glass, that might shatter in his hands.”  


“He earned their trust,” T’Chaka began.  


“Their LOVE,” N’Jobu insisted.  


“And lived with them long enough that he could not help but love them back.”  


“Fought a war by their side, if his story about the alien invasion is true.”  


“And then betrayed and killed all of them. And destroyed the country,” T’Chaka finished grimly.  


“I fear so.”  


T’Chaka shook his head. “It makes sense. It makes a great deal of sense. He destroyed everything that he loved, for a childhood oath of vengeance, and came to regret it.”  


“The drinking, alone in that muddy, rotten shack.”  


“Not intending to return to Wakanda until you begged.”  


“I did not beg.”  


“Ordered, then.”  


“He said his only belongings were in one of the abandoned bunkers on the headlands. Those are not places to live. Musty, damp concrete shells, deep underground. Far from people.”  


“He was exiling himself. He intended to save you, and then punish himself for his crimes.”  


“Even as he continued my work. Yes. I think so.”  


T’Chaka was silent for a moment. “I do not want him near my son. I am not sure I want him in Wakanda. But it would be worse to not know where he is or what he may be doing.”  


“If you tell him to avoid your son, he would, I think.”  


“If you are correct, then he would probably lock himself permanently in his rooms, if I asked him to.” T’Chaka shook his head. “No. He is unstable enough already. I will not contribute to it. And T’Challa already adores ‘Cousin Leon’ back. If you are right – and I think you are – T’Challa could not have a more fearsome protector.”  


“I could be wrong. He could be playing us, as well.”  


“For what purpose? He could have killed me easily in America. He already has Bast’s blessing; he could have the throne in a heartbeat. And… my instincts say to trust him.”  


“He is a skilled liar. Impossible to read.”  


“As all Wakandan royalty must be, when we travel beyond our borders. But…I can sense him. As if the beast that prowls through me has prowled through him as well, and carries his imprint on her fur. He tastes of…honesty. Self-disgust. And a great terror of being left alone. Again.”  


N’Jobu winced. “That fits. Yes.”  


“I wish he were female,” T’Chaka mused. “This would be so much easier if I could just toss him in with the Doras. He would fit in well with them, I think.”  


N’Jobu groaned and rolled his eyes. “It is hard enough raising a son on my own; I cannot imagine what I would have done with a daughter. Besides, he will only be here a few weeks.”  


T’Chaka looked stubborn. “What is there in America for him? We are his family. This is his HOME. I want him here.”  


“If my guess is correct, Wakanda is surely a place of painful memories for him.”  


“And America is not?”  


“You heard him. America is his home. The land of his people. Their fight is his fight.”  


“As it was your fight?”  


“Yes.” N’Jobu replied simply. “Brother. I do not think you understand what it means, to believe in a cause greater than yourself. I came with you today, because there was no other choice. Because I had an obligation to make sure my son – both my sons – were well taken care of. But if I had seen any other path with even the slightest chance of survival, I would have taken it. And stayed there. Forever.”  


“You are a traitor, and a murderer,” Zuri cut in, spitting out the words.  


“Yes,” N’Jobu replied simply.  


“Enough,” T’Chaka said wearily. “Brother, you have given me much to think on. Thank you. But it is the middle of the night here, and I have duties that I must attend to early tomorrow. I will meet you in your rooms for breakfast. Zuri, attend me.”  


“Yes, my king,” Zuri scurried to his lord’s side, the Doras falling in beside them.  


Alone, N’Jobu stood on the ramp for another minute, letting the familiar sounds and smells of Wakanda seep into his brain. He sighed, and turned back inside to grab his bag, and his son’s. Just inside the ship, a glimmer of silver caught his eye. The chains, which Lindiwe had dropped when they had seen T’Challa in “Uncle Leon’s” grasp. N’Jobu walked over and nudged them with his foot. They rattled softly as they shifted along the roughened metal of the floor. He smiled wryly, and then, alone and unwatched, left the ship to go lock himself up in his childhood rooms.


	5. I can’t fix it

“Tell me more of my daughter.”

Erik glanced sideways at Lindiwe, who stalked through the night-darkened streets with the same air of tightly leashed power Okoye usually wore. Erik shoved his hands in his pockets and relaxed into an even more casual swagger, forcing her to slow to match.  Light and laughter briefly spilled out of a restaurant doorway up ahead as a young couple exited.  The door closed, cutting out the sounds of life.  “Why?” he asked bluntly.  “That future is gone.  There’s no way to recreate it, even if someone wanted to.”

“She did not meet you until recently, correct? Anything from before that is still relevant.”

“Except that Wakanda still has a second prince now. And Pops ain’t the sort to sit quietly in obscurity.  Even if nothing directly changes but duty rosters, odds are that everything will be different.”

Lindiwe’s lip quirked upward.  “I am not asking for tactical data.  The accuracy is…. irrelevant.  I am asking as a mother, not a soldier.  It is curiosity, nothing more. When did you meet her?”

“You know most of it already.  And the details ain’t a story you want to hear.”

“Then tell me something that I will.”

Erik thought for a bit.  “She’s … indomitable.  Holds to her honor, and trusts others to hold to theirs.  But once she decides something is  important enough to take a side, it’s pretty much a given that her side will win. Even if it’s just an argument with her husband over what to have for dinner.  It she was more opinionated, it’d be obnoxious, but she’s weirdly content to let the people she loves take their own paths.  She only steps in when things are going to go really wrong otherwise.  But everyone in the country listens when she does speak up.”

“A husband.  She is married?”

“Yeah.  With kids.  Three of ‘em.  Although it’s usually four, ‘cuz my son’s usually with them whenever he ain’t with me. He’s practically hers anyhow.  I didn’t know what I was doing with him at first, and his mother was gone; Okoye pretty much took over caring for us both.  I want to say it was only till I got things figured out and got my feet under me again, but to be honest, I still depend on her pretty heavily.”

“You have a son? But …”  Lindiwe snapped her mouth shut.

“Yeah. And I can’t fix it.”  Erik’s voice was soft.  He tugged the chain around his neck out of his shirt.  At its end, a yellow-brown gemstone had been centered in a familiar silver and black ring and tied in place with a complex web of wire.  “I hadn’t  actually intended to come back.  I was just trying to get away; wanted to go as far back as I could, and my earliest memories are of that apartment, so that’s what I thought of.  But my memories of the place are all tainted by the day Father was killed.  So I returned to the moment of his death.  And then I just reacted on instinct.  Wasn’t a conscious choice.  Just couldn’t watch him die again.  And now my son will never be born.”

Lindiwe was silent for several steps.  “I am sorry,” she said eventually.

“Not your fault.”  Erik shrugged, and tucked the ring and stone back under his shirt.

“Your wife, she was American?”

“Yeah.  Met in the military, stuck together after.  We weren’t married, but we would have, eventually.  Promised her I’d make her a queen.  She would’ve been a great one.”

“You clearly loved her deeply.  Perhaps we could find a way to introduce her to your younger self somehow.”

“You a romantic?  Didn’t expect that.”

“Just because I am a warrior doesn’t mean I can’t wish for happy endings.”

Erik snorted. “Yeah, I loved her.  More than I’ve loved anyone before or since, save the son she gave me.  But I was the one who put a bullet in her brain, when she got in my way.  So I ain’t going near her again.  She deserved better than that. Besides, she loved _me_ , with all my viciousness.  Not the person that kid is going to grow up to be.  And even if she could love him, she matched me in ruthlessness.  If he grows up right, someone like that’d just mess him up.”

Lindiwe stared at him, then smoothly stepped in front of him and turned to face him, forcing him to stop as well. She set her feet and met his gaze squarely. “Every time I start thinking that perhaps you are not so bad, you say something horrifying.  Each unimaginably worse than the last.  And you are doing it deliberately.  You are too calculating for it to be an accident.  Why?”

Erik smiled at her.  “You remind me a LOT of your daughter right now,” he said dryly.

“That is not an answer.”

Erik shrugged.  “You serve T’Chaka, right?  Not Wakanda in general?”

“They are one and the same.  He is king.”

“Pretend for a moment that they aren’t.  I talk to you, it goes to T’Chaka, not anyone else, unless he clears it?”

“He does not keep secrets from his people.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t exactly a secret. But I’m pretty sure he won’t want it getting around.”

Lindiwe nodded, finally.

“I started something last night.  And now that it’s started, I need to follow through or it’ll mess up a lot of the world.  So I can’t stick around.  And I can’t risk anyone connecting me to Wakanda, so most likely I won’t be able to return, or even stay in contact.  But I destroyed my future to save Father. I’m not going to let that go to waste.  I’m not going to let him be killed.  Or even punished severely enough to permanently mess up his son.  They get to live a normal, happy life.  I’m gonna make sure of that.  But the only way I can guarantee their safety is to make sure knows just how much of a monster I can be. I took T’Challa out.  Took my son’s mother out.  Armed the war dogs and told them to take down the nations they lived in, not caring what would happen to Wakanda as a result.  And I’m fine with that. I’m fine with everyone knowing that.  Because if Father is killed?  If I wiped my son out of existence for nothing?  I’ll abandon the rest of the world to come back and avenge them.”

“What are you doing, that would affect the world so strongly?”  As expected, Lindiwe ignored the threats and immediately latched on to the most important bit.

Erik jerked his head towards the store they had been heading towards, visible at the end of the block.  “Let’s get finished here.  I’ll tell you when we get back to the palace.”

Lindiwe paused, and then stepped aside and fell into step beside him again.

The store was a cross between an coffee shop and a convenience store, brightly lit with colorful painted tiles covering the floor and halfway up the wall.  It catered to the small number of Wakandans who worked night shifts, and offered cheap comfort food and whatever necessities people might need in the middle of the night, when nothing else was open.  Erik ignored the clerk’s welcoming smile and headed towards a rack of simple tan cotton shirts in the back.  Lindiwe stayed behind and was speaking with the clerk.  Arranging payment, probably.  Or just smoothing over his rudeness.  Erik didn’t care; he’d never see them again anyhow.

There were a handful of shirts in his size; he grabbed all but one of them – someone else might actually need it, after all -  plus one a size bigger to sleep in.  If he didn’t have clothing tomorrow, someone would probably try to get him the embroidered silks that the royal family favored, which would attract too many questions.  He grabbed a couple pairs of loose pants as well, and a nearby shelf netted a handful of  personal items. Within few minutes he had dumped the whole pile on the front desk.

Lindiwe had arranged payment, and apparently said something that discouraged questions, since the clerk just wrapped them all up in a loose sheet of thin cloth, and handed them back, without attempting conversation.  Erik grunted a thanks and followed his erstwhile guide out the door.

The palace wasn’t far, and Lindiwe set a fast pace, obviously intent on getting her question answered.  Erik followed amusedly, the bundle of shopping tossed carelessly over one shoulder.

Lindiwe led him to the guest quarters on the opposite side of the palace from the royal family.  N’Jobu would probably have something to say about that tomorrow, Erik thought wryly, but didn’t object.  The small suite that they ended up in had a single bed with yellow-green bedding and a turquoise desk holding a pitcher of water and a few glasses.  With the pale tan walls and black-stained wood, it gave the impression of walking into a jungle.  There was even a trailing plant of some sort on a shelf just above the window, the leaves trailing down to partially obscure the glass.  Lindiwe waited till Erik was all the way in the room and then pointed at the bed.  “Sit.  And talk.”

Erik laughed and obeyed.  “How much does Wakanda teach about the World Wars?” He asked.

“Extreme detail, for those of us who work in defense.”

“You remember a group called Hydra?”

“Nazi mystics.  Playing with obscure religions and poorly researched magics in hopes of finding a way to bypass the limitations of the laws of science.”

“They survived the war.  More than survived.  Right now, today, they have agents in the top echelons of almost every government in the word.  And in two decades, those agents will reveal themselves in a mass assassination intended to wipe out existing governments and put Hydra in control of the planet.  They’ll fail, but the fall out was nasty.  Hydra’s plan focused on their infiltration of an international organization called SHIELD, which worked under the auspices of the United Nations.  When that came to light, all the major international organizations came under suspicion, and were hamstrung with new regulations to the point of being essentially disbanded. Including the UN.  Without a structure for multi-national diplomacy, nations turned inward, or relied on one-on-one networks of ever-changing alliances instead of working within a common framework of laws. That plus the sudden absence of standardized trade agreements and transnational crime enforcement led to a vast upswing in corruption.  The world economy tanked, and like always happens in a poor economy, unscrupulous buyers snapped up most of the world’s wealth for pennies.

“Hydra figured they could just saunter in and take over because the world was already in chaos from an alien invasion – yeah, from outer space, those aliens – a few years before.  We fought ‘em off, but as a result everyone became more focused on the alien threat than growth and human rights, so there wasn’t much of an outcry when people were trampled on.  International aid and police work started being outsourced to megacorporations like Stark Industries, which boasted of “privatizing world peace” but didn’t have anywhere near the kind of oversight elected governments have. That left a lot of holes for Hydra to step into.  And a lot of holes that didn’t get filled at all.  The rich and powerful made sure to protect their own, but regular communities and smaller nations flat-out didn’t have the resources, and on top of that, there was a lot of backlash against people daring to complain about ‘little things’ like social welfare and human rights when an alien army could arrive any day.  So enhanced fighters – people like the Black Panther – started just going around doing whatever they could to protect people in the absence of government bodies willing and capable of stepping up.

“To make the whole mess worse, Stark developed a clean energy source that replaced oil, and the economies of the Middle East, Africa, and South America crashed hard.  Everyone knew alternative energy was coming, of course, and it probably would have been a good thing in the long run – maybe it stopped us from eventually driving ourselves into extinction - but the short term effects were pretty horrific.  No one was prepared for it.  Oil producing governments went bankrupt in months.  Sure, most of the profit had never reached the people, but the government’s debts and obligations didn’t disappear when the money did. So they governments just stopped public services, with no ability to pay the salaries of employees.  Garbage wasn’t picked up, sewers weren’t maintained.  Disease and poverty spread, and soldiers and police turned into armed gangs of thieves.  And the rest of the world was too focused on the alien threat to care.

“Fast forward a few years, and there’s another alien invasion.  And then another.  And another.  Without a governing body to coordinate planetary defense, and half the world in too much chaos to fight back at all, Earth barely survives.  We wouldn’t have, if the enhanced folk hadn’t banded together with the megacorporations to create their own semi-private army, and gotten a couple other alien races to come to our aid.  I aim to fix that.”

 “How?”

“Without Hydra, the world might have come together in time, especially if Wakanda had stepped up to the plate to lead.  But we have to get the timing right. If Wakanda steps in now, before the first alien invasion, we’ll be seen as a threat, and come under attack. That fight might be just as destructive as Hydra was.  But I can set the stage to get Wakanda accepted when it’s time; get people in power who aren’t war hawks, get policies that are aimed at international cooperation instead of conflict.  Support political groups that push for the common good of all mankind.”

“Can you have that kind of influence?  Once you start changing things, your knowledge of the future will swiftly become worthless.”

“Not by my lonesome, but I know who will. Hydra.  They started it, and I’m gonna use them to finish it.  I’m taking them over.  Already got the ball rolling.  See, the thing about super secretive organizations that work out of cells with a strict hierarchy, where questions get you shot?  The bottom ranks have no clue who gives them their orders, or what the overall plan is.  If I take the place of the guys on top, I can take control of the entire group with no one the wiser. Tale as old as time. But no one will be expecting it. Especially not a group that believes no one knows they still exist.”

Lindiwe raised an eyebrow. “You think you can infiltrate a group of white supremacists?”

“What, you don’t think I look Aryan?”  He grinned. “Won’t be a problem.  Most communications are through dead drops now, and it’ll be electronics later.  When I do have to meet someone, I’ll just claim to be a messenger; no one will question it.  I’ve done it plenty of times before.  I’ll order everyone to support calls for world peace and human rights, tell ‘em it’s so they don’t come under suspicion before Hydra’s big day.  They’ll get the world in an accepting, cooperative frame of mind, and then I’ll take them all down a few months before the invasion, just as Wakanda starts hinting that maybe there’s more to the country than goats and grass.  A technological wonderland hidden in an impenetrable jungle will be shocking enough that no one will pay much attention to the Hydra agents getting arrested or just disappearing, and then the aliens will arrive, so there won’t be enough time for anyone to set up an organized opposition against Wakanda.”

Lindiwe was silent for a moment. Erik used the break to pour himself a glass of water, and a second for Lindiwe at her nod, when he quirked an eyebrow towards her in question.  “I am impressed,” she said quietly, after draining half the glass in absent-minded sips. “If you pull it off, I will be more so.  But why tell me now?  Why me, and not your father, or the King?”

“Cuz I need an ally on the inside, here in Wakanda. You can tell uncle if you want.  I won’t stop you.  But he ain’t the practical sort, is he?  I can tell that already.  He’ll do what he thinks is right.  Not what he thinks will be most effective.  If he tries to help me, and my name gets tied to Wakanda?  Then through me, Hydra might get identified as a Wakandan organization. And that’d turn everyone against you.  Without Wakandan aid, the world won’t survive what’s coming.  But keep quiet, let him react to things as they come, and it’ll all work out right.  I’ll make sure of it.”

 “You are trying to turn me.  Make me, a Dora, into your agent.  A spy, against the throne.”

“Yeah.  How am I doing?”

“Absurdly.  I will not aid you.  I cannot imagine why you think I would.”

“Cuz there isn’t any other choice?”

“You are being lazy, not practical.  Arguing takes time and effort that seems like a waste if you can get everyone to do what you want without it. But if you respect the King, then help him do his job.  He needs to know the truth to be a good leader; do not hobble him by denying him access to information he needs. It might work this time, but later we will all pay the price for his ignorance. Teach my king.  Trust him to listen, to learn.  Even if you are a poor teacher, he has been trained from childhood in how to listen and learn from those who lack the skill to express themselves clearly.  He will hear you.  Here in Wakanda we know how important it is to learn from other’s mistakes, that we never repeat an error that others have already learned how to avoid.  There are very few issues that are truly new in this world.  Perhaps your aliens are one of them…but I doubt it.  He will be able to work your plans into his view of the world.”

Erik shrugged wryly, unbothered by her passion.  “Okoye wouldn’t have gone for it either,” he admitted. “But it was worth a try.  I enjoyed talking with you about it anyhow.  Thanks for that.”

“You will tell the King the entirety of your plan tomorrow, and get his aid.”

“Nah.”

“Then I will inform him myself.”

“Nope.  I mean, I’m sure you intend to.  But you won’t.”  Erik stood up from the bed and sauntered over to stand in front of her.  Looming.  She took a deep breath and braced herself, every  instinct blaring a warning, but she couldn’t spot the danger.  Black Panther or not, King or not, he was still just a man.  He shouldn’t be able to make one of the Dora Milaje feel this off-balance.

“Sit back down,” she ordered.

“Why?  I ain’t doing nothing.”  He smiled and took another step forward. She took one back to brace herself, shifted her hand on her spear in clear warning.  The room spun before her.  Her eyes widened.  She dropped the spear; darted for the door.  Erik grabbed her wrist.  A foot caught her ankle; as she fell, Erik pulled her against him, his free hand covering her mouth.  She kicked back, caught nothing but air.  The dizziness was worsening fast.

“Easy,” he murmured.  “It’s nothing too bad. Just slipped a little something in your drink.  You’re going to sleep for a while, and when you wake, you won’t remember this conversation, or most of the last hour or two.  Nothing worse than that.  Okoye said you used to sleep under the peach trees in the royal gardens when you had insomnia; I’m going to leave you out there, okay?  You’ll be fine. I just need to run a couple errands while I’m in Wakanda, and I can’t have you tagging along.  Prisoner under guard isn’t quite the impression I’m going for, you know?”  She stilled, tried to fake unconsciousness in hopes he’d give her an opening.  Behind her, Erik laughed quietly.  “You remind me so much of your daughter,” he said wistfully, but his tight grip never relaxed.  Within seconds her vision started to dim, and moments later she slipped into unconsciousness for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing. This was supposed to be a short story about a happy, healthy Erik trolling Wakanda with hints about the future, while offering a look at what life was life for T'challa, Nakia, Okoye, and W'Kabi when they were children. (And be the set up for a Shuri-is-awesome side story.) In short, it was supposed to be pure fluff.  
> This is not fluff. This is about as far as you can get from fluff. Because I got about two thousand words in and realized I either had to write everyone very out of character, or do a 180 and get serious. Because if N'Jobu lived, he would still be an activist. And a criminal, in his brother's eyes. And there is no way in hell Erik WOULDN'T get involved in helping him. Which means I had to do something with N'Jobu's work in America. And worldbuild Wakanda's criminal justice system.  
> This isn't what I planned to write and I'm not sure I like it, but it's still incredibly interesting to try to figure out realistic ways for the characters to interact, while trying to somehow maneuver everyone into position for the fluff I originally wanted to write.  
> The Obi-Wan Kenobi quote about the song the title is taken from was supposed to be a hint about unreliable narration. Basically, "the author is a lying liar who lies, but it's all true too, from a certain point of view." I'm pretty sure no one picked up on that - I was being too obscure, sorry.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I write what I want to read, so the ideas are free for other people to play with too.
> 
> Title from the Johnny Mathis song. Lyrics are relevant .... from a certain point of view (I carry a weapon from a more civilized age).


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